Super Bowl hero Plaxico Burress accidentally shot himself in the right thigh and spent the night in the hospital, another dramatic turn in a tumultuous season in which the star New York Giants receiver has been fined and suspended.
You do not “accidentally shoot yourself” in the right thigh. Curious to see all the facts come out on this one. Quite possible he just stuffed a gun in his pocket and it ended up caught on some keys. Still, that’s not an accident. That’s negligence. These is something that your average citizen who carries concealed knows quite well.
He’s an NFL superstar. Let’s see if he’s treated like your average citizen:
Newsday reported Burress has a concealed weapon permit from the state of Florida that expired in May 2008. It is unclear if the permit was renewed; such a license can be renewed up to six months beyond the expiration date in accordance with section 790.06(11)(a) of Florida Statutes.
However, the states of New York and New Jersey do not recognize permits from Florida, so Burress could be charged in the incident.
Hey, picture yourself in a nightclub in NYC. With a gun and an expired carry permit. Now picture it “accidentally going off” and see if somebody says you, “could be charged in the incident.”
I don’t know how many of you struggle with various chronic health issues. If you do, you know how bad it sucks to have nearly every minute of your day-to-day taken over by something that feels strangely out of your control.
For me? It’s a pinched nerve. Call it sciatica.
Standing up and walking around? No problem (usually). Staying seated? Not an issue. Laying flat on my back? Simple.
But ask me to get up from sitting, or bend even slightly with a straight leg? Pain. It feels like someone’s carving a channel down your leg right behind your knee. Now, as a thirty-something, I should NOT be unable to tie my own shoes, but that’s pretty much where I am right now. Forget driving altogether. Put me in a car for thirty minutes and I have to work real hard not to scream when I get myself out.
It. Sucks.
I have no idea when I’ll be over it, but until then expect moderate “holiday-style” scrawlings from yours truly. I have no health insurance (and unlike most voters, don’t want it bequeathed upon me by our new lord and master at your expense), which means “creative management” of health issues and the human body. Advil does a marvelous job at masking the pain, a Chiropractor does a great job at “readjusting” my spine, but neither of those actually fix anything. I may be stuck in this place for awhile.
So if you manage to wake up in the morning and feel pretty good - minor bumps and bruises aside - cherish it.
Aaaaahhhh. The melodic hum of an interstate full of automobiles. The stable sense of cruise control. The smell of rest-stop food (note, I didn’t say “taste”). The view of mile markers as I steadily progress into states where my individual rights and liberties shrink into socialist blackness.
Must be the Holidays!
Light-if-any blogging to commence!
While I’m gone … mind your manners (The “… and he knew what else he wanted!” gets me rolling every time. And how ’bout that cake!!):
Saw this over at SWeasel and figured I’d post about it myself. For me? Clear cut.
Best Job: Paper Delivery Boy. Holy hell that was a long time ago, but riding your bike around for an hour and throwing things at people’s houses is something I’d gladly do today for the same amount of pay. Exploding newspapers would be even awesomer.
Worst Job: “Maintenance” at a busy supermarket. Cleaning up olive oil spills in aisle 5 was no problemo. Getting a knowing smirk from some 350-pound behemoth with two newspapers under his arm heading into the bathroom for his morning constitutional knowing full well you’re the pimply little piss-ant that’s going to have to mop up whatever toxic abstract art he decides to splatter about the stall walls (and he DID) with his malodorous backside during the next 45 minutes while his wealthy wife shops the imported foods aisle …
That. Sucked.
It would’ve made the CSI folks throw up. Picture a massive gorilla unleashed in a bathroom stall, finger-painting with his own feces after a night of feasting at Taco Bell. The seat was hanging off the toilet. Newspaper was stuck to the wall. And there I was, standing in the middle of it making $4.25 an hour.
I’m damn lucky that even with 8 years of a disastrous Obama Presidency, my oldest will still be under 15 by the time it’s over. Because if he *was* 18 … and somebody came knocking at our door in regards to recruiting him for a “Mandatory” Civilian Defense post under Barack Der Fuhrer Obama, they would surely find themselves gently swaying a few inches above the floor from one of these in my basement.
I’m no biology or physics expert, but I’m thinking gravity would make it real hard to pry that out of the back of your skull while you were hanging from it.
As a matter of fact, for under $3.00, I’m tempted to buy and hang it up now … just to freak out any liberal visitors to my home. I think the visual impact would be quite remarkable.
Either that, or a big white canvas with a shotgun resting on a table next to it. Fuck with me or my family, and I make abstract art from your brains, asshole.
I'm a gun-nut, a gamer, and a snarky bloviator. A pissed XP abuser turned pompous Linux user. Tech-head, blogger, mastered Pong and Frogger, a shootin' tennis player who still has all his hair. So there.
